


Masquerade

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the early days of the Great War, and Decepticon rookie Trickshot finds himself thrown into the thick of the action alongside a motley crew of misfits, all serving under a mysterious and unnerving commander.  As Trickshot and his squad take on daring missions behind Autobot lines - and try to navigate the treacherous waters of Decepticon politics - Trickshot starts to realise that he may have found more than a Cause in the Decepticon ranks.  He may have finally found somewhere he belongs.</p><p>But Trickshot also has a secret.  One that could destroy his nascent family, and bring a faction to its knees.</p><p>(Note:  As you may have picked up on by now, Trickshot is NOT an OC.  He's actually someone you've almost certainly encountered before, under a different name.  In fact, most of the main characters in Masquerade are canon characters; it's just that the story won't necessarily give their names right away.  Guesses are welcome, but I'm not going to give anything away in advance. :))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Squad

**Author's Note:**

> Please see each chapter for ratings and warnings! These will be marked individually, and may include both explicit violence, torture, and sexuality. (For chapter 1, fairly non-explicit references to battle and injury.)
> 
> A NOTE ON NOTPS - PLEASE READ: This fic contains romantic as well as friendship pairings. In some cases, relationships are depicted while the identities of one or both characters are still a mystery. This means there's a risk you may read a pairing you wouldn't be okay with reading, if you knew the characters involved. I'm aware that the nature of Masquerade means I can't warn for these ships, so please proceed with caution. If you're concerned about specific ships, you can always drop me a message here or on Tumblr (same username), and I'll do what I can to help you navigate the fic.
> 
> This fic is a bit of an experiment for me, and I'd be really interested in hearing what you think as the story progresses. Thank you for reading!

“First rule,” the big guy rumbles, “goes like this:  The squad is the squad.”

I wince as I rub a thumb over my abdominal plating, where that Autobot’s blade took a healthy slice out of me.  Already, it’s stopped seeping, self-repair beginning to kick in, but I’ve left a good few gallons of energon on the ground between the battlefield and here.  My fingertips are numb; my engines sound thready, even to my own audials.

Still, I’ll live.  At least, that’s what I assume the battalion medic meant when he took one look at the wound and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, at the computer terminal where the non-critical list was flashing.  I put my name down on the list after about three dozen others waiting to get patched up once all the serious cases are stablised.  Frag knows when it’ll be my turn.  Another day, I might have minded that, but seeing our sole medic running back and forth from one mangled, screaming pile of guts and gears to another, his arms soaked in gore to the elbow… well, it put things in a little perspective.

We’re a quiet bunch tonight, this new unit of mine.  One bloke bought it in the first wave of the assault, and our shiny-aft unit commander is off… somewhere.  Getting orders, or getting a bollocksing from his superiors, given today’s performance.  Or getting his spike sucked behind the general’s tent.  It’s hard to tell with that one; it’s not like he tells us anything.  So we’re only six, clustered around a scrapheap fire to keep the fuel from icing over in our lines.

I check my internal chronometer.  All in all, we’ve known each other for less than eleven hours, and most of that has been spent ducking Autobot laser fire.  And now this guy is talking about the squad, like it’s anything more than a battlefield grouping.  Like it’s real.

He’s not done, either.  “Now, some of you are rookies; I get that.  You probably don’t know how it works yet.  You still got stars in your optics about the Cause.  But that only gets you so far.”

“Better not let the commander hear you,” mutters one of the other mechs, sitting half in shadow on the far side of the fire.  He doesn’t seem to want to get too near it… or too near the rest of us.  Difficult to tell.  “That one doesn’t take kindly to anyone talking slag about the Cause.”

“Hey, _whoa,_ ” the big guy says, backing up a step and raising his hands.  “I didn’t say a word against the Cause.  Ain’t none of us would be here if we didn’t believe.  But that’s just it – we already made our choice, you know?”  Long, pale fingers trail over his Deceptibrand.  He’s not pointing to it, so much as just casually tapping it, like he’s reminding himself, not us.  “And unless you’re _really_ special, that’s a choice you only make once.  I mean –”  He grins and nudges the mech sitting next to him.  “Not like your loyalty to Lord Megatron gets tested a whole lot, right?  Yeah?  You figure there’s gonna be an Autobot agent waiting behind the washracks one day, ready to offer you a billion shanix to sell out your faction?”

The mech – kid, really – getting nudged looks up with a brilliant, terrified smile plastered on like it’s his last line of defence against the world.  I remember that expression, that look of frozen panic, even after the fact.  Bet you anything you like he’s an M.T.O. fresh out of his first firefight.

When it’s clear he’s not going to get an answer out of the kid, the big guy turns to the rest of us.  “But loyalty to your squad – that’s a choice you gotta keep making, every day, every sparkbeat.”

“Primus’s rusted hatch, will you _shut up_ ,” snarls the mech on my right.  His fingers keep flying over the carcass of the gun he’s disassembling in his lap, moving unerringly without his even needing to glance down.  “Every _sparkbeat,_ go frag yourself.  Some of us _aren’t_ rookies, you know.  I’ve served with four other units before now.  You think this is special?  Some flunky shoved our names together on a duty roster, and now we’re, what?  _Family_?”

“Maybe not,” Big Guy returns evenly.  “But like you said, you’ve done this before.  So what keeps you going in the middle of the fight?  The dream of the New Decepticon Order, or thinking, ‘The guy next to me just went charging ahead, I need to make sure he’s not alone out there’?”

I notice that the last member of the group – a soldier sitting right up close to the fire, across from me – hasn’t said anything yet, but he’s suddenly paying real close attention to Big Guy.  The mech taking apart his gun doesn’t answer.

“And how about when it’s you leading the charge?  Are you gonna feel better thinking you’re about to die for the Cause – or that you’re _not_ about to die at all, because your squadmates have your back?”

We’re all listening, now.

“And what makes you get up, even when you’re exhausted, and take everyone’s ration chits and go get us all some fuel?  Is it the vision of a better world, or is it knowing we’ll be oh so grateful when you get back?”

We all blink.

There’s a long, puzzled silence, and then I can’t help it.  I start to laugh.  “Did you just give us that whole spiel about teamwork because you were hoping someone else would volunteer to go and pick up the fuel rations?”

“Well, since you’re offering –“

I stand, casually flipping the big guy off.  “Fine, whatever, I hope you get your spike eaten by scraplets, everyone give me your chits.”

Big Guy holds his out, looking pleased, but the quiet guy sitting across from me suddenly pipes up.  “He’s injured.  You can’t expect him to go.”

“You want to go in his place, be my guest,” Big Guy drawls, putting his hands behind his head and flexing his wings luxuriously.

“Why not _you_?”

“Oh, just because of my alt mode, you think the only thing I’m good for is carrying fuel?”

“I’m sorry, I – wait!  No, you fragger, because _you’re_ the one who brought up going to get rations in the first place!”

“Look.”  I hold up a hand.  “I really don’t mind, but I’m moving a bit slow, so don’t expect an early dinner.  And I could use some help carrying.”

There’s a pause, then the soldier who was arguing with Big Guy – I think I’m going to call him Quiet – says, “I’ll come.”

We start out driving towards the middle of the encampment, but before we get very far, the rubble forces us to transform and walk.  What was a flat plain this morning is fractured, a maze of warped hills and treacherous dips.

“We’re getting to the edge of the aerial bombardment zone,” Quiet tells me, with a warm note of admiration in his voice as he skirts a crater.  “The Seekers must have torched this place to _slag._ ”

“Impressive,” I murmur.

“More than that.  Did you see it?  The moment the Autobot line broke.”  His voice is hushed, like we’re on sacred ground.  “One minute, they’re coming at us, wave after wave, and I’m not sure we’re going to be able to hold; and the next, Commander Starscream is sending up a wall of fire between them and us.”

I saw it, all right.

We were close enough to hear the Seekers come screaming in overhead, even above the shriek of laser fire and the thunder of metal on metal all around us.  I glanced up in time to see the command trine streaking past, Starscream’s unmistakable colours glinting… and then the centre of the battlefield lit up like a damn Mortilus lantern, as they poured fire down on the Autobots below.

Within seconds, the battle became a rout, ‘Bots abandoning their positions, flinging down their weapons as they fled, as if it would let them gain even a little extra speed to escape the blaze.

The thing is, you can’t run from the fight.  You can’t.  They’re not going to let you, and even if they did?  Where do you even think you’re running to?

The entire world is a conflagration now.  There’s no going back; the only thing you can do is try and fight your way through.

By the way, you can usually smell a battlefield before you see it.  This close to ground zero, the smoke is thick and cloying, carrying with it the sticky-sweet scent of spilled fuel and the acrid tang of scorched metal.  I can feel my throat start to close up.

Maybe that’s why I’m distracted enough not to see them at first; I’m concentrating too hard on not being sick.  They loom out of the smoke, four huge, scarred-up shadows that are abruptly between us and the mess tent.  Quiet puts a hand on my shoulder, bringing me up short.

“Hey there,” the mech in front says, smiling.  “Where’d you get all those ration chits, friend?  You take them off some poor suckers?”

“Hmmm?”  I laugh, startled.  “Nah, we’re just collecting for our unit.”

“So not only did you _not_ take those in a fight, you’re a couple of poppet valves who haven’t even got the bearings to say no when your squadmates give you the grunt work,” he purrs.  “Perfect.”

A massive hand extends towards me, palm up.

“Then we’ll be taking those, if you don’t mind.”

For a second, I waver.  Quiet and I just survived a battle; we’re exhausted, and each of these guys is about three times our size.  I joined this army knowing I could die, but I’ve got no intention of dying stupid.

I look this mech up and down, and I wonder what the odds are that they’d ever leave us alone again if we give in now.

You can’t run.

Out of the corner of my optic, I can see Quiet shift, slowly, and I feel his back pressing into mine.  It feels like a decision.  I draw myself up and stare at the mech in front of me.  “I don’t think so.”

I’m grudgingly impressed – just a little – that he doesn’t try to bargain or mock.  He just silently throws a right hook that I barely dodge.  I dart down under his arm, inside his guard, and manage to get close enough to stomp his foot; he winces and shrinks in on himself, but the second I spend trying to suss how much damage I’ve done is the second I realise I’m too close.

That same arm comes back and slams into my throat, pinning me to his body.  I can hear dark chuckling around me as my vision starts to blur.

“Oh, you don’t _think_ so, do you, you little _uuuunnnhhh_!”

The mech suddenly grunts and staggers, and I don’t even think – I just wriggle out of his grip and twist around, bringing my hands up in frantic defence.  It’s only then that I realise what took him off balance.  Turns out it was Quiet barrelling into his side with all the fury of a tank.  He’s standing over the mech now as the guy slowly sinks to one knee.  I meet Quiet’s optics; he looks as startled by what just happened as I am.

The mech’s friends are pretty surprised, too… but they’re apparently getting past it with alarming speed, as they spread out to surround us.

I make a move towards my gun, but Quiet grabs my arm, insistently shaking his head.  Right.  He’s got a point.  If we pull weapons, this becomes a fight to the death, and we’d better be damned sure we can kill the lot of them before they kill us.  As long as it stays hand to hand, there’s a chance they’ll just beat the living slag out of us and let us crawl away with all our extremities intact.

… I hope.

We’re back-to-back once more, and I’m bracing myself for the first guy’s charge when there’s a flash, and one of the mechs screams and crashes to the ground.

I stare as he lies, groaning, on the scorched ground; there’s an ugly charred streak across his back, and even through the thick post-battle fug, the smell of freshly burned metal makes my tanks churn.  The other mechs take one look at the source of the shot, and all scramble backwards, saluting.

I squint at the figure striding towards us, holstering his gun.  “ _Sir?_ ”

Our unit commander steps out of the smoke.  He’s barely recognisable; there isn’t a trace of that polished-to-a-liquid-shine finish left.  He’s even filthy compared to the rest of us.  It looks like he hasn’t bothered to so much as wipe himself off after the fight, leaving spilled energon caked on his plating like a sloppy paintjob.  And yet… something else has changed, as well.  I remember him before the battle, all jittery fingers and revving engjne, walking stiffly back and forth along the line.  Now, it’s like that nervous energy has burned away with his paint.  The way he slinks towards us is all graceful economy of motion, like something feral stalking its prey.

He ignores me completely, narrowing his optics at our four attackers instead.  “Is this the kind of petty slag you think Decepticon warriors should be wasting their time on?”  His voice is soft, kind of like the sound of a blade through the air is soft.

“We were just messing with the rookies, sir –“

The commander steps up until he’s toe-to-toe with the mech speaking.  It’s almost funny to watch; the commander’s a little slip of a thing, really, even shorter than I am (though not by much), and this guy is built like a World-Burner.  Nevertheless, the mech quails, shrinking as far away from the commander as he can manage without actually giving in and backing up.  The commander’s lip curls, and he says, “Go get your friend patched up, and the next time you decide you deserve an extra ration or two for being big, scary mechs?  Don’t squabble with your comrades like a bunch of sparklings.  Get it the way _real_ warriors do.”  What passes over his face is less a smile than a brief flash of teeth.  “Rip it out of an Autobot’s fuel lines.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Go.”

The two mechs still on their feet help their friends up and stumble away.  Without really meaning to, I edge a little closer to Quiet as the commander turns his attention on us.  Quiet leans close enough to subtly bump my shoulder with his.

There’s a long pause, and then the commander asks, “Going to pick up the squad’s fuel?”

We squeak out our yes, sirs.

He holds out a ration chit of his own.  “Fine.  Don’t be too long.  I have news for all of you.”

And with that, he’s gone.  Quiet looks at me, and all I can think to do is shrug.

“Wow,” he says.

“Yeah.”  I cup the back of my neck.  “Hey – thanks for the assist back there.  You could have run off; they’d probably have let you go.”

Quiet stares at me as if I’ve sprouted tentacles.  “I wasn’t about to _leave_ you here.”

“Well… thanks.”

He nods, then sticks out his hand a little awkwardly.  “My name’s Krok.”

I shake it.  He’s got elegant hands for a soldier; then again, how many of us were soldiers before we wound up here?  “Trickshot.”

His optics crinkle a little at the edges.  “Shall we go get that energon?  While that lot is still scared lubeless?”

I throw an arm around his shoulders.  “Let’s.”

And as we walk, I let my optics drift out of focus, just for a sparkbeat, while I access a certain corner of my processor – and the special device hidden there.  It’s just that I’ve got a message to send.

**_\- Transmission -_ **

_::Control, this is Agent 119.  Infiltration is complete.  Awaiting instructions.::_

**_\- Transmission ends -_ **


	2. Rust Puffs and the New Decepticonomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snacks, snark, and surprise guest appearances IN SPACE as Trickshot gets to know his unit a little better - and finds out about their mysterious new mission.

**_\- Transmission -_ **

_::Control, this is Agent 119.  The unit received new orders yesterday.  We’re getting shipped offworld; according to the commander, we’re going to accompany a shipment going to one of the planetary infiltration teams.  I’ve got to say, I expected the commander to be antsier about being put on escort duty, but he almost seems like he’s looking forward to this.  Will come back as soon as I learn anything further.::_

**_\- Transmission ends -_ **

 

* * *

 

 

**_\- Transmission -_ **

_::Control, this is Agent 119.  Please confirm receipt of message… when convenient.::_

**_\- Transmission ends -_ **

 

* * *

 

“What,” I manage, but that’s about as far as I get.

“I know,” Krok replies.

We’re standing on the upper deck above the loading bay of a starship, watching the single biggest container I’ve ever seen be lowered carefully from a crane down to half a dozen mechs below.

Half a dozen _armed_ mechs.

“It’s a weapon, right?” I ask.  “I mean, it’s got to be, what else would need us as a special escort on top of the crew?”

“Could be some kind of new tech,” Krok muses.  “Navigation, detection.  Not necessarily a weapon.”

“I bet it’s fuel.”  Big Guy saunters up to us, casually pushing between us to rest his elbows on the railing.  “Heard they were doing all kinds of experiments with new forms of distillation.  Super-concentrated, fortified, enriched fuels – guy who told me said that some of them more or less give you superpowers.”

“If it’s fuel, why’s it all in one giant box?” Krok asks, brow furrowed.  “Seems inconvenient.”

“Oh, I see, my alt means I _have_ to be the expert on fuel, is that it?”

“For the last time, I don’t care about your alt mode, and _you brought it up_!”

I crane over the railing, tuning out both the argument and the slight twinge in my still-healing abdominal plating.  “Hey, guys?” I say after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“Look at the guards.”

Krok leans next to me, and I can hear his intakes momentarily still.  “Huh.”

“What?” Big Guy demands.

“Think about it, Tankor,” Krok says softly.  “if you were transporting something valuable, you’d post guards around to make sure no one came and took it, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So… why have they all got their guns pointed _at_ the box?”

 

* * *

 

 

“First rule,” the captain tells us, once our unit is all lined up in front of him, “goes like this:  My ship is my ship.”  He pauses.  “And when I say first rule, I mean first, last, and only.”

Glancing sidelong, I can see the tension in the lines of my unit-mates’ backs, the set of their jaws.  At a guess, I’d say it’s only partly about the massive mech stalking back and forth in front of us.  The rest is all about that box.

It’s been hauled down here, to the brig, and _bolted_ into the wall, with more mag locks and intricate shock clamps than I’ve seen in my life.  Up close, you can see that there’s a thin seam tracing a rectangle on the nearest surface – a door of sorts, I suppose – and that the seam is lined with dozens of indicator lights, all showing a steady and secure green.  _For now,_ some massively unhelpful part of my processor pops up to tell me.  The guards only left once the whole apparatus was locked down tighter than a penthouse in the Towers… but they are gone, now, to rejoin the ship that delivered our mysterious cargo.  Now, all the responsibility for this thing comes down to us.

I can tell from the way everyone else twitches uneasily every once in a while that they can feel it, too, the creeping sensation up our back struts, even when we’re facing away from the box.

The kid lets the twitch spill over into a proper fidget, and Big Guy – Tankor; bad habit of mine, the nicknames – Tankor subtly kicks him to get him to stop.  The captain’s engine sputters, a dismissive sound. 

He continues:  “While you’re here, you all come under my command.  Obey orders when they’re given, and otherwise, stay out from under my crew’s feet.”

Our commander flashes that smile that isn’t a smile, just gritted denta and a hint of fangs.

The captain turns to him, sizing him up.  He’s at least twice the commander’s size, but I realise by now that doesn’t mean much.  After a moment, the captain sneers, “And you.  I expect you to keep this lot –“ he waves a lazy hand over us – “under control, and I expect daily reports on the state of that _thing_ in the box.  And if I ever get the slightest _hint_ that it’s less than fully secure, if you ever let yourself get _sloppy…_ well.”  He brings his masked face within an inch of the commander’s.  “Even the fact that you’re Megatron’s pet won’t protect you from me.”

I don’t know whether the commander would have done what he does next, if the captain chose to tell him all this in private, instead of scolding him like a sparkling in front of his unit.  Knowing the commander… yeah, probably.  Either way, though, there’s no stopping him now.  He glances down, red optics dimming coyly, and leans even closer to the captain.  And then he purrs, “Really, Turmoil.  With your reputation, I wouldn’t have imagined you’d be so scared of a packing crate.”

Captain Turmoil’s visor glints, a thin slice of reflected light making its slow way across the glass as he tilts his head to study the commander. 

We all watch that sliver of light.

“Think about that reputation, the next time you feel like shooting your mouth off again,” Turmoil says softly.  He lifts his hand – I can _feel_ Krok and Tankor tense on either side of me – but all he does is settle it on the commander’s shoulder, giving him what could almost pass for a friendly shake.  That is, if I couldn’t hear his palm _scrape_ along the commander’s plating, even from here.

The commander’s optics flare as Turmoil gives his shoulder one last squeeze – the metal visibly buckles – and lets him go, throwing back over his shoulder, “Report at the end of the third shift,” as he leaves the brig.

My vents exhale in a rush, and judging by the sigh that ripples across the room, I’m not the only one.  The commander is staring after the departed captain, his lip curled.  I can make out actual paint scratches on his shoulder.

“You’ll rotate guard duty,” he instructs us, without looking around.  “Two each shift, weapons out and ready.  Make sure all the indicators on the control panel stay green, and alert me the instant there’s any change.  An alarm should sound if that happens, but if the system malfunctions, the alarm might, too; you’re the failsafe.”

“Sir…” I’m glad it’s Krok who speaks up.  There’s a… delicacy, I suppose, to Decepticon soldiers asking questions of their superiors.  I’m still getting the hang of it.  He’s had practice.  For a start, he knows better than to blurt out _what’s in the box?_ “What should we be looking out for?”

“Just keep a sharp eye on the indicators.  And keep anyone from getting close to the box, although… well, I’m almost tempted to let them try.”  And there’s the commander’s _real_ smile, fast and fierce. 

 

* * *

 

 

If Tankor wants to get away from the stigma of his fuel-hauling alt mode, maybe he shouldn’t kick off our first real mission as a unit by producing an unholy number of –

“Snacks!” he announces proudly, bringing a double handful of packets out from his subspace as soon as the commander is gone.

Don’t think that I’m complaining, by the way, because I _absolutely_ am not.

The kid’s face lights up brighter than that string of green lights adorning the box; Krok steps forward eagerly, and even our squadmate who’s forever keeping his distance is edging closer now.  That just leaves Mr. Personality, fussing with his gun, as usual, and generally ignoring the rest of us.

“Stuff’ll clog your lines,” he says without looking up.  “There are all kinds of additives in it.  Makes your paint come over splotchy, and it’s about the worst thing you can do for your engine short of shooting yourself in the chest.”

“Aren’t you a little ray of sunshine?” I snipe back, but there’s no heat in it; all my attention is focused on the little packet cradled in my fingers because _dear Primus, **rust puffs.**_

Rust puffs!  Airy, sweet-savoury mineral crystals with just the softest bit of crunch when you bite down on them, and a dusting of mercury.  I first ran into these during training, when our trainer would bring them out if one of us had gotten hurt, or occasionally if we’d done very, very well in an exercise.  I didn’t even know the company was still _making_ them after Polyhex fell.

As if he read my mind, Big Guy says, “They’re discontinued, but a buddy of mine was in the squad that took over the Polyhex factory.  He’d worked there, back before the war.  Claimed the warehouses and everything in them for the ‘Cons, and managed to set aside a stash of puffs and rust sticks and slag for a rainy day.”  He grins and winks, and I beam up at him.

“You’re a useful mech to know, Big Guy.”

“Well, you know what they say – I groom your wings, you groom mine.”  He looks me over.  “Guess that saying doesn’t make a lot of sense to grounders.”

“No, I got the gist.”  Enough for it to leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth.  I keep my voice light, though, because no one else seems to mind that this gift comes with an implied price tag; they’re all nodding and smiling along.  Pit, what Tankor said put a crinkle at the edges of Krok’s optics that looks downright affectionate.  What is _that_ about?

“Haven’t had these before,” the kid says, turning the packet over, and I forget all about Big Guy and his ideas about favours as we _all_ descend like vultures.

“You’ve never had _rust puffs_?”

“Primus’s aft, you need to try one _right now._ ”

“Just trust us, holy slag.”

The kid looks bemused, but he obediently opens the packet, selecting a puff between two delicately pinched fingers and putting it in his mouth.  We’re all waiting with our optics glued to his expression, our own snacks forgotten.

He chews thoughtfully, and then something happens to his face that I can only describe as “finding Cyberutopia”.

“Oh.  _Oh._ ”

“Told you!  Didn’t we tell you?”

“Nice job,” Mr. Fun-Will-Clog-Your-Fuel-Lines says sourly.  “Now you’ve gotten the rookie hooked.”

“Ah, shove it up your exhaust pipe…” Tankor says, then glances at me, smirks, and adds, “… _Sunshine._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

**_\- Transmission incoming -_ **

**_::Agent 119, this is Control.::_ **

It arrives in the middle of the night, that first reply.  My optics snap on, but I school myself not to move, not to twitch.

The message – the very first, since I went undercover – arrives as neither sound nor text, exactly.  It’s implanted in my processor without going through any of my senses, so the words are precise, but the feeling of receiving them is bizarre; it comes like a strange tickle at the back of my neck.

And yet, even though I know there’s no actual speech involved, I “hear” those words in your voice.

Inside my head, I switch to transmission.  _::Control, Agent 119, confirming.::_

**_::We’re tracking your coordinates.  There are three alien worlds with Decepticon presences within your projected flight path.  Which one is your destination?::_ **

_::Not sure.  But the commander said it’s about two weeks’ travel time.  Is that enough to figure it out?::_

There’s a pause, long enough that I wonder whether I’ve lost the connection, and then:

**_::Tergloran.  Population, 11 billion; technology rank 3, pre-space travel.  Infiltration recently entered Phase 5.  What are they doing?  Is this the prelude to some kind of invasion?::_ **

_::I… I don’t know, Control.  Slagging weird invasion, though, wouldn’t you think?  One ship?  One weapon on one ship?::_

**_::Depends on the weapon.  I need you to get a look inside that box.::_ **

_::Copy that.  A question, Control?::_

**_::Proceed.::_ **

I hesitate, but I have to know.  _::That battle a couple of days ago.  How many did we lose?::_

The speed with which the answer comes back feels pointed.  **_::You tell me.::_**

_::Sorry?::_

**_::We are not a ‘we’, not anymore.  What did I tell you?  You need to be one of them, frame, processor, and spark.  If you let yourself forget that, even for an instant – if you eat, talk, ventilate, even_ dream _like an Autobot – you are putting everything and everyone at risk.  So.  How many_ did _you lose in the battle, Decepticon?::_**

Without meaning to, I grip the edge of the berth.  _::It was bad.  No thanks to you… Autobot scum.::_

**_::Good.::_ **

I don’t know whether you mean the casualties, or the way I told you about them, but I cling to the way you say “good” long after the connection cuts off.


	3. Phase Shifts and Game Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's in the box, Trickshot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that there are additional content warnings for this chapter. The big one is that it contains a graphic depiction of self-harm (pragmatic rather than driven by depression, but still pretty detailed, and includes blood), and a painful surgery scene. Also, there's a bit of romantic touching and some fairly non-explicit sexual references, and, later, vague references to feeling nauseous. (The two are unrelated. We hope.)

_Get a look inside the box._

 

It’s easier said than done. Technically, we’re supposed to be on rotating shifts of two, but only the night shift is ever really down here by themselves. Taking a cue from their captain, Onslaught’s crew are mostly giving us the cold shoulder. So, with the mess hall and the public spaces a little too tense for comfort, we all tend to spend our downtime hanging around the guys on duty, anyway. It’s like we’ve colonised the brig as our personal rec room.

 

So my best shot is going to involve waiting until I’m put on the night shift tomorrow, when I’ll only have one person to get out of the way instead of five. In the meantime, I’m playing a game with the squad.

 

Well, technically, I’m playing two games with the squad.

 

Okay, _technically,_ I’m playing a whole lot of games with the squad, all at once, but these are the two they actually know about.

 

The first is Praxus Fold ‘Em. Practically the whole squad is here, sitting in a loose circle in front of the box, like some kind of weird ancient cult paying tribute at our sacred monument. With a card game. (Look, I never said it was a _perfect_ analogy.) We were all too chicken to ask the commander if he wanted to join us, but I even managed to talk Sunshine into anteing up. And by “talk” I mean I basically needled him until he got so pissed off that beating us all became a point of pride. Which seems to have been a mistake on my part, because he’s handily kicking our afts.

 

Of course, that could be because the rest of us are distracted by the _second_ game we’re playing.

 

“Okay. Killmaster, Hellbat, and...” Tankor flexes his jaw thoughtfully. “Deathsaurus.”

 

“Kill Killmaster,” Krok says immediately.

 

“Krok.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is that so you can brag about being the master of killing Killmaster?”

 

Krok favours us with a cool thousand-yard stare. “Maybe.”

 

I cover my face with my cards to try and hide my sputtering laughter.

 

“I’m fragging Hellbat!” We all look around, startled, at this surprise entry from our most stand-offish comrade. I mean, I’ve mentally dubbed the guy Ten Feet, since that’s about as close as he ever seems comfortable getting. I didn’t think he was even bothering to follow our little game of Frag, Conjunx, Offline, let alone that he wanted to take part.

 

There’s a brief silence. Then Tankor declares, “Yeah, Hellbat is hot,” and we turn back to our cards.

 

“Two more.” Sunshine slides two cards towards Tankor, who’s dealing. The big guy flips him a couple of fresh ones.

 

I look at the slagshow that is my hand, and decide on three new cards. “So, are we all agreed on this one? Frag Hellbat, _conjunx ritus_ with Deathsaurus, and master the killing of Killmaster?” I feel a little stab of victory when Krok chuckles.

 

“Deathsaurus would be a good conjunx, I think,” Big Guy muses.

 

“I would feel safe and loved in his big dragon-ly arms,” Krok deadpans, and at least this time, when I lose it, I’m not the only one.

 

“I can just see you,” Tankor teases. “Big, lavish party with the whole of high command in attendance. Blushing as Lord Megatron toasts your union. Surrounded by newsparks once Phase Seven starts.”

 

“You’re going to regret making fun once I’m the spoiled consort of one of the army’s top commanders,” Krok returns mildly.

 

Wait.

 

Phase _Seven_?

 

Maybe it’s a joke. Because otherwise…

 

I rearrange my cards restlessly, as if that’s going to make my hand any better. The Decepticons have been running the same infiltration protocol for ages now. Five phases, and the fifth is planetary takeover. I mean, your infiltration of a world can’t get any more complete than controlling the entire thing, right?

 

So what the _ever-loving frag_ are phases six and seven?  


“I don’t know,” the kid says, once he stops giggling. “I think I’d probably frag Deathsaurus.”

 

Tankor’s engines choke mid-laugh.

 

The kid ducks his head. “I just like… you know. Big.”

 

“Oh, you are going to get yourself in _so much trouble_ one day, kid,” Tankor tells him, looking up and down the newbie’s tiny, gangling frame.

 

“Yeah,” I whisper, leaning in, “but you’re going to have so much fun doing it.”

 

A final round of betting, and then it’s time to reveal our hands. Meanwhile, Big Guy’s still got his processor stuck in the wrong game. “I mean, okay, you _could_ frag Deathsaurus, but then you have to marry either Killmaster or Hellbat, which _how are you even doing that._ ” This last is directed at Sunshine, who’s just turned over a full barracks (Councillors and eights).

 

Sunshine actually smiles as he rakes in the pot. It’s the faintest smile you could imagine – just a softening at either corner of those polished lips – but it’s there. “My brother always loved a poker game, he –”

 

And then the smile abruptly drops off his face.

 

“He taught me,” he mutters hastily, not looking at us.

 

I exchange a puzzled look with Krok; Ten Feet has his optics glued to Sunshine’s expression, and the kid is listening intently, a slight frown creasing his face.

 

“Well, remind me to punch your brother in the mouth if I ever meet him,” Tankor says easily. I get the sense that the casual tone isn’t because he’s oblivious to the sudden tension in the room.

 

Sunshine murmurs something that sounds like, “You might get your chance,” and reaches for the deck of cards. I nudge it towards him. He deals in silence.

 

We study our cards, and then the big guy sighs. “Come on, let’s have another round, I was enjoying that.” He pokes Sunshine with his toe. “Hey. You come up with three names this time.”

 

Sunshine grimaces and rubs at the smear of dirt left by Tankor’s foot, but he seems to give it some thought. “Fine. Onslaught, Megatron –”

 

A violent flurry of “nope!”s and shushing and throat-slitting gestures meets this suggestion. I’m glad to see that Sunshine looks as confused as I feel.

 

“We can’t do Lord Megatron,” Tankor says hurriedly.

 

I raise a browridge. “You mean we can’t... _do_ Lord Megatron?”

 

“Actually, I don’t think _that_ option is the problem,” Ten Feet drawls from his spot against the wall.

 

Krok explains patiently, “You can’t throw Lord Megatron into a game where one of the options is ‘offline’, because you’re inviting people to actually express their desire to kill Lord Megatron.” The colour drains from his faceplates. “Not that anyone in this room _has_ that desire!”

 

We all shake our heads fervently. Then the kid says, “… but it’s just a game.”

 

“No, I get it,” Sunshine pipes up. “People used to talk about the pit fights like they were just a game, too.”

 

Krok nods. “You can use a game to test someone’s reaction to an idea that you can’t say out loud – not yet.”

 

I notice Sunshine’s fingertips are toying with the points of the Deceptibrand on his chest.

 

What we’re taught of Decepticon history, of the early days, is patchy. The very beginning is well-documented, of course; Pit, half of it the Prime himself can tell you, first hand. But then Megatron of Tarn disappears during a mine-workers’ riot and the record gets… uncertain. Stories of illegal gladiatorial matches and street brawls told by the cops who busted them up, stories of underground meetings told by the very occasional informer who survived, and a mythology that emerged complete and golden many centuries later. All of it riddled with gaps where info creep and wishful thinking have seeped in.

 

(You hate that, Control. You always hate that.)

 

But one bit of the myth that gets repeated more than the rest says that once Megatron had forged a team of gladiators who could defeat all comers, he gathered them together and told them that he’d replace their flimsy team badges with a brand that never comes off.

 

As I watch Sunshine, reflecting that he doesn’t exactly sound like someone who only heard all that as a story after the fact, I realise I’m touching my own Deceptibrand in unconscious imitation.

 

_I remember it hurt like nothing I’ve ever known._

 

_The blade was white-hot, but after the first second when it bit into living metal, I couldn’t even feel the heat anymore. E_ _verything was subsumed under the pain of being hacked open._

 

_With the pain came an awful, vivid focus. My whole world was boiled down to just one imperative: Stop. This. Happening. It’s because – this is how the doc explained it to me just before he went in – if someone cuts into your spark chamber like that, your processor automatically thinks you’re dying. And the thing is? It’s right._

 

_Thank frag for training. Mine made me bite down on the scream when every instinct I had was pushing me to lash out, to bash my fist into the doc’s face – and then, just like that, the cutting stopped, and I could feel something deep inside me lift away, leaving a numb, sucking void that was almost worse. The doc stepped away, holding a curved fragment of metal up to the light with a pair of tweezers._

 

“ _There you are. Intact, and the size requested,” he said smoothly, and handed the scrap of my spark casing to the tall red bot in the corner, the one with the scope mounted on his shoulder. He seized it eagerly, and turned away to set it on his workbench, bringing a weirdly shaped instrument to bear against it._

 

_The doc, meanwhile, frowned at the readings on his scanner, and then picked up a welder. “Just let me patch the gap in his casing –”_

 

“ _No.”_

 

_And that’s when you stepped into my line of sight._

 

_The doc sized you up out of the corner of his optic, in that way that always looked like he thought you were beneath his contempt, but I realised – well, I realise, now, with some distance – probably really just meant he was worried. “I don’t like the amount of spark energy bleeding off him.”_

 

“ _We’ll try to be brief. But as I said, we are modelling this as closely as possible on what my informants tell me about the rite of the Deceptibrand. That means_ every _aspect. And I’m reliably informed that Decepticons don’t receive medical care until after the ritual.”_

 

_The doc’s wings twitched. “Barbaric.”_

 

“ _I don’t need your opinion on Decepticon culture right now, Pharma.” You crouched by the berth, looking me in the optic even as you kept talking to him. “You’re here to make sure I don’t accidentally kill him.”_

 

“ _So we’re not ruling out ‘on purpose’, then, eh?” I remember being taken aback by how reedy my own voice was._

 

_You eyed me levelly. “I haven’t excluded it completely, no.” And after the longest pause imaginable, one side of your mouth twitched up, just a fraction of an inch._

 

_The giddy feeling that washed through my spark almost made me forget how horribly exposed it was._

 

_The red mech came over and dropped something into your palm. I might not have recognised it – the solid, bare metal of my spark casing now fashioned into a careful latticework, and painted the rich purple of spilled energon._

 

_You took in a ventilation, slow._

 

_And then you rose, spreading the fingers of your left hand over my spark without touching. I could see the play of sparklight on your palm, and felt a little sick. Your right hand lifted the newly-fashioned Deceptibrand into my line of sight._

 

_I braced myself._

 

_One fingertip dipped inside the hollow of my spark casing, stirring the errant threads of spark energy as it went, and my back arched as current shot along the length of my body. My head slammed back onto the berth, and the edges of my vision whited out; I could barely make out the doc striding forward, moving to grab your hand, but then it was over and I was panting on the berth, charge still buzzing through my joints like a thousand tiny whip-cracks. Your finger was sticky with my innermost energon, and you smeared it onto my face, long triangles under my optics. The warpaint Megatron wore in the arena, at the dawn of the Decepticon rebellion._

 

_Your voice, which had always been cool and soft, deepened a note as you intoned, “You were deceived, but now your optics are opened.”_

 

“ _I was deceived, but now my optics are opened.”_

 

“ _Do you take up the brand of the Decepticons of your own free will?”_

 

“ _I take it up, the brand that can never be removed.”_

 

“ _Do you swear yourself to the Decepticon Cause?”_

 

“ _I swear to fight for the Cause until my spark is extinguished.”_

 

“ _Do you swear yourself to Lord Megatron?”_

 

“ _I swear to follow Lord Megatron into the Pit itself.”_

 

“ _What is your name, Decepticon?”_

 

_The alias we’d decided on rolled off my tongue almost more easily than my real name. “Trickshot.”_

 

“ _Trickshot, receive the brand of the Decepticon Cause, ripped from your spark casing by your own will; the brand that can never be removed, for it is of you and one with you.”_

 

_There was a faint sting as you pressed the brand to my collar fairing, and tiny teeth on the underside flicked out and sank into me, melting on contact to weld the brand firmly to my body._

 

“ _As your commander, I accept your oath,” you continued. “ As you are sworn to the Decepticons, you are sworn to me; and as you are sworn to me, so am I to you, for the triumph of the Cause and the glory of a free Cybertron. ‘Til all are one!”_

 

“’ _Til all are one,” I whispered._

 

***

 

“You,” I inform the Decepticon next to me, “are evil.”

 

Krok’s optics crinkle in amusement. “You know you want to.”

 

It’s the night shift at last. Just Krok and me down here. And true to our orders, we are guarding the box with our weapons drawn and at the ready.

 

Well.

 

Technically. If you expand “at the ready” to include “lying on the floor within grabbing distance”.

 

We came on shift more than four hours ago, is the thing, and while guard duty isn’t something I’ve got shedloads of experience in, I imagine there are more engaging things to guard than a big box. Two hours ago, we’d pretty much exhausted our speculation about what’s in it. An hour and forty minutes ago, we sat down to take a break and have a quick snack – standard ration cube for me, one of Krok’s slightly terrifying energy drinks for him. And we just… didn’t particularly bother to stand up afterwards.

 

And twelve seconds ago, Krok challenged me to another round of Frag, Conjunx, Offline.

 

I tilt my head back against the wall. “All right. It’ll keep us awake, at least. Hang on, let me think of one.” We’ve positioned ourselves so as to keep one optic on the box, all its indicators still glowing placidly green, and one on the door. Krok is sprawled strutlessly next to me, his knee brushing against my thigh. “Oil Slick, Shockwave, and... hey, that rule about Lord Megatron. How far down does that go?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Like, would that be the same for Commander Starscream?”

 

“Nah. You can kill Starscream. _Everyone_ wants to kill Starscream.” His voice turns thoughtful. “Everyone wants to frag Starscream, too. It’s a conundrum.”

 

“Well, let’s make it easier. Mixmaster.”

 

“Are you picking all scientists on purpose?”

 

I wrap an arm around his shoulders. “’Cause I know you like nerds. Nerd.”

 

He flashes me a look, bright red optics strangely calculating for a second, then settles back against my arm as he thinks. I scoot a little closer, and listen to his steady ventilations, waiting.

 

Because an hour and forty-three minutes ago, I poisoned Krok’s energy drink.

 

Okay, “poisoned” sounds overly dramatic. It’s not going to kill him. It shouldn’t even make him seriously sick… just sick enough that he can’t finish his shift. It’s not going to be a fun evening for him, is all. (The thought makes my throat tighten unpleasantly, in a way that I’m trying very hard not to think about.)

 

The toxin is taking its sweet time to start working, though. At this point, I’m going to need every minute alone just to get that box open.

 

“I don’t think I’d survive fragging Shockwave,” Krok muses.

 

“Oh, well, if you’re going to drag _realism_ into it.” I gently tap the side of his helm. “You think you’d survive trying to kill him?”

 

“Primus, no. I suppose I could always – hang on. Are we playing the version where one of the options is straight-up _conjunx endura_? Or are we playing the classic version?”

 

“Oh, right – the version where, the third person, you live with them forever but you can never touch them?”

 

Krok blinks. “Never _frag_ them,” he corrects.

 

I smack him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re splitting hairs. Come on, it’s Shockwave –”

 

“No, no, no, that’s _not_ splitting hairs, touching someone is very different from fragging them! Not being able to clang is one thing, but – see –” He spins to face me, and wraps one hand around my wrist. “I mean, would _this_ be okay?”

 

There’s a pause. I look down, taking in the sight of those long, clever fingers, dark against my plating. The warmth of them.

 

“Yeah, I think so.”

 

Krok’s optics are on my face as his other hand – so terribly careful – settles against my cheek. “And… would this be okay?”

 

I deliberately let my optics go half-lidded and make my voice husky, like my mouth has suddenly gone dry. It worries me how little I have to pretend.

 

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I reckon that’d be okay.”

 

And that moment, of all moments, is when the toxin chooses to kick in.

 

I watch Krok’s optics widen and pale to a sickly pink hue. His EM field comes over in prickly surges that make me wince as they brush against mine. He lurches to his feet, and I’m right behind him, barely remembering in time that I’m not supposed to know what’s happening.

 

“Hey, no need to be like that,” I say, sounding hurt. “If you’ve changed your mind –”

 

“It’s not that! I – Trickshot –“ He huffs behind his mask like he’s fighting the itch to purge his tanks. “I feel sick –”

 

I give him an out, though it would be a little too generous to call it an act of mercy. “You look terrible. You want to go have a lie down?”

 

He nods. “I should wake up one of the others so you’re not by yourself –”

 

“Eh, don’t bother. I’ll say you were here the whole time. What’s gonna happen in a couple of hours, right?”

 

I watch the door close behind him, and my fuel lines twist queasily. Under the strange and unwelcome guilt, there’s another sensation, even less welcome, wrapped up in the memory of Krok’s touch on my plating. _Why couldn’t the toxin have waited five minutes?_

 

These are Trickshot’s thoughts. Trickshot’s feelings. My hand slaps against the wall to steady me as my knees suddenly weaken. Agent 119 wants no part of this remorse, but Agent 119 can’t be here, now, on a Decepticon starship. This is Trickshot’s world, and Trickshot is buckling before he even reaches for the lockpicks. And I… _I…_

 

Hands shaking just a little, I take the lockpicking kit you gave me out of subspace, sizing up the picks and data drives inside. I select a slender blade, just right for slipping into the circuitry of a reinforced locking mechanism.

 

Then, without hesitating, I drive it into the metal of my thigh.

 

The pain comes billowing out in icy waves. I hold onto it tight. _I am this frame,_ I recite in my head, exhaling slowly. _Whatever else I am, I am this frame._ _This frame is here. This frame is real. This frame has a job to do._

 

The tool is tacky with energon in my hand. I take out a cloth and wipe it down, like an apology, before absently swiping at the spilled fuel on my thigh.

 

Then I set to work.

 

First step is to disable the alarm, so no one comes running when I start popping the locks. A handy little device from the kit not only shuts the alarm system down, but disguises the sabotage. If anyone has a look at it afterwards, it’ll seem like the power flow was interrupted and the alarm just failed to reset – a simple glitch.

 

If only the locks themselves were going to be as easy. Training is all well and good, but I’ve never seen a system like this in the real world. It’s got loop-backs and failsafes enough to make Epistemus himself throw his hands up. There’s no way in except the old-fashioned way, bending and adapting the code line by line while I physically tease the wires apart.

 

It’s an hour before I’m past the first set of maglocks. Through the vents, I can hear distant thumps and snatches of conversation, the sounds of the ship waking up. There’s still an hour left on our shift, but no guarantee that one of my squadmates isn’t going to wander down here in search of company at any moment.

 

Thank frag, the next few locks pop more easily; but the last clamp has some kind of shutdown mechanism built in that I practically have to cut my way around. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I mutter as the tip of the pick scrapes against hidden wires, perilously close to the mechanism’s trigger. If I so much as ventilate wrong, I’m going to lose a finger or two, not to mention getting stuck with my hand trapped in the lock for anyone to find me.

 

Something deep inside the lock hums, and I freeze… but then that note fractures and halts, and _yes_ , the seam of the box unlocks with a click.

 

I stand as far back as I can, and start to pull one side of the box open slowly. I’ve been prepared for anything: a booby trap, an explosion, a sudden release of poison gas if the locks are breached.

 

What I’m not prepared for is a hand shooting out of the box and dragging me inside.

 

The box slams shut again behind me. Inside, dim emergency light strips running up the walls turn the interior a dull, murky red. I can barely see an arm’s length in front of me, but I can make out two massive columns of metal… no. Two massive _legs_.

 

Above me in the dark, a pair of red optics flare to life.

 

I squirm desperately as the huge hand tightens at my waist and hoists me clear off my feet. As it lifts me, a face leans in out of the gloom: a delicate-featured, almost pretty face, with optics like a rain of Seeker fire on a living planet below.

 

Lips part, and a low rattle emerges. Finally, in a rough voice that sounds thick with rust, the mech manages three words.

 

“Has it begun?”


	4. Pandora's Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations abound as Trickshot finally figures out his squad's secret mission. Now, the question is whether he'll survive long enough to tell anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that this chapter contains some depictions of violence, as well as references to self-harm.

_Primus spare my spark._

It's something the old timers say. On Agent 119’s side – our side. Not even in battle; after hearing of a death, sometimes, if it’s especially gruesome, or when the news comes down that Megatron himself has arrived on the field. Not a prayer, really, anymore. Something reflexive. A ward to keep the unholy things at bay. I don’t use it.

In my head, I’m using it now.

I’m dangling uselessly in an iron grip. It’s not even as if the hand around me is meant to hurt. His hold is casual, the way someone might pick up a datapad. It occurs to me that he could probably crush me without feeling it.

“Has it begun?”

“I – I –” It’s sheer instinct that makes me blurt out, “No!” because I have no idea what _it_ is, but the thought of _it beginning_ flashes up a whole montage of horrific images across my optics. “No. It hasn’t.”

_Go back to sleep,_ I silently beg, _just accept that and go back to sleep…_

Something in those flaming optics shifts, clocking me for the first time. Sharpening. “Then what,” he purrs, “did they send you to me for?” And the hand around my waist tightens. Sharp claw-tips brush my sides. Then he lunges forward – just a few inches, but it’s all I can do to keep from yelping as I squirm and kick, unable to get any distance from the horrific smile looming into my field of vision. “Are you my little entertainment?”

“I –”

A taloned finger trails down my front, nicking the edge of a transformation scheme. My engines practically stall. There’s a flicker of interest in the mech’s huge optics now. I don’t know if he wants to play with me or rip me apart. I don’t know if there’s much difference

_Get it together,_ a voice in my head says. And it isn’t you, Control, but for a moment, it almost sounds like it could be.

“I’m – your doctor. Just here to check everything’s working properly before it begins, and all.”

To my relief, he leans back, suddenly meek as a lamb. “Ah, yes. The ununtrium. I’ll admit, the side effects seem to be lingering after this last set of upgrades.”

“Yeah? We can have a look at that.”

“Mmm.” The mech’s optics have dimmed sleepily. One side of his mouth lifts, in a smile completely unlike that terrifying grin a moment ago. “The things we do for the Cause, eh?”

I beam back, and give the nearest finger curled around me a companionable pat. “You’re telling me.”

“And yet.”

His grip tightens punishingly. I gasp; there’s a sickening sound of metal creaking.

“I notice you don’t have any medical equipment with you.”

“It’s outside.” My voice is a little strangled. “If you’ll just let me –”

“I don’t think so.”

“You grabbed me before I could pick it up! Is this how you treat everyone who examines you? Because let me tell you, it’s no wonder you’re getting side effects if you won’t let anyone close enough to - ”

“Little thing.” He hums. “Do you think I can’t spot a liar?”

My engine stalls. He can probably feel it, choking and stilling in his grasp.

I open my mouth to double down, but there’s something in the offhanded way he says it. The fire in his optics has dulled; they’re not fierce right now. They’re… knowing. I feel the impulse to repeat the same lie brushing too close, like a knife’s edge, and I shut my trap quickly.

And now I’ve been silent for a beat too long, and he knows he’s right.

When he cocks his helm, the shape of it catches the light, and I draw in a shallow vent as I suddenly realise _I recognise this mech._

His optics rake over my face, and then he smiles. “You know me. Don’t you?”

I feel a horrible urge to laugh bubbling up. _Yeah, I think some of my squad picked you to marry in Frag, Conjunx, Offline when it was down between you and Deathsaurus._ “Black Shadow. Who doesn’t know the Warriors Elite?”

“Oh, little thing. I’m so much more than that, now.”

He must see something in my expression, because that smile broadens. “Is that what you wanted to find out about? You’re not here to hurt me – or you’re the worst I’ve ever seen at it – so was that all? Simple curiosity?”

I nod fervently.

“No one _sent_ you, perhaps?”

“No. Sent me? Who would have done that? All the officers know about you, don’t they?”

“Perhaps.” His huge thumb moves against my side, almost a caress. “You know what, little thing? I believe you.”

I beam up at him hopefully.

And then I feel my ventilation system start to constrict as his hand tightens, tightens. Something in my chest _buckles._ I grunt in desperately stifled pain.

“So there’s no one to care if I ended you right now,” he confides, his ventilations tickling my plating.

That grip is choking off my energon lines. There’s no fuel coming through to my processor, no fuel, no air. Dimly, I’m aware that my hands are scrabbling at his fingers, my fingertips coming away covered in paint, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

_You’re never even going to find my body, Control, you’re never going to know what happened – no one to care if –_

The crushing grip around me lets go completely, and I plummet towards the ground. I bite down on a scream, but Black Shadow catches me by the ankle as easily as if I were a lobbing ball.

“So, then. What will you give me for letting you walk out of here alive?”

It takes a couple of frantic ventilations to get my voice working again. “I’ll pay you!” Surely, one of the most famous crime lords in the galaxy would be interested in that; but he shakes his head, the tilt of his mouth looking almost sad.

“ _Money._ And how much money do you have tucked away, little thing? That accent doesn’t exactly sound like you’re from the Towers. Are you offering to pay me off with a grunt’s salary?”

“All right. All right. A favour, then!”

That actually startles him into laughing. “A _favour?_ What could you possibly do for me, that I’d let you go on a future promise, when I wouldn’t do it for cash in hand?”

And then I tell him who my unit commander is.

“You know that name,” I whisper urgently. “You know Megatron has plans for him. If he rises, so do I – and then my favour really _will_ be worth something.”

His optics are weighing me up.

And then, as I watch, they _change._ That fire is back, but where it was banked before, it’s flaring now, hungry.

_“Or maybe I’d have more fun ripping you up!”_

I’m thrown into the air, the force ripping at my crumpled plating. Then his hand darts out and slaps me flat against the wall of his prison. Those optics fill my vision. I have the sickening sense that I’m still falling, plunging through the dark towards a planet on fire…

Abruptly, the hand pinning me trembles and loosens, as a shudder runs through Black Shadow. His optics dim, and he suddenly leans back, catching me gently on his palm as if it were an afterthought.

I try to make out his expression in the dark. He’s ventilating fast and shallow, and a glimmer in the low light shows his teeth bared as if he’s in pain.

And now it makes sense – the guns, the locks, all that effort to contain a mech who apparently wants to be here. “Side effects,” I breathe.

Black Shadow finally sets me down. I rock back, trying to keep my balance. “A favour, for your life. Deal. Now get out of here, or I can’t guarantee I’ll let you leave.”

I turn to stare, daunted, up at the wall; you can’t even see the seam where the door is. Reaching over me, Black Shadow gives a push with his fingertips and it opens.

“But don’t imagine I won’t come to collect.”

I grope for what a Decepticon would say, what Trickshot would say, and what came all too naturally a few hours ago now feels like I’m wading through oil to reach it. “Well, you know what they say. I groom your wings -”

“We’re not _friends,_ little thing. Go.”

 

***

 

I stumble out into the brig. Thankfully, it’s still empty, and I turn to start re-sealing the locks. It’s much faster work than cracking them, thank frag. That’s when I actually think to check my chronometer.

Three minutes _past_ the end of shift.

I grip the lockpick and force myself to focus on the maglocks, a chill pooling in my gut, around the still-healing weld scars. _They’re just late. Sure, they’ve never been late_ _to shift change_ _before,_ _but_ _it’s just a few minutes_ _, eh?_ _After all, they’re not here. It’s not like they’d have turned up and found the place empty and_ _just_ left _, just… just…_

… _just sounded the alarm and gone running off for the commander…_

I finish the last of the locks and spin away from the box, stashing my tools. Not much I can do about my own appearance. I know I’m a mess of bruised metal.

Seven minutes late.

_They’d have tried to comm me. Wouldn’t they? Would the signal have reached me in there?_

Ten minutes.

_I can’t call them. If it turns out they_ are _just late, I’d be giving the game away, and even if they do know I left my post, that’d still look even more suspicious._

It’s twelve minutes past shift change when Tankor and the kid finally poke their heads cautiously around the brig door, and I’m on my feet in an instant.

“Just where the _frag_ have you two been?”

“Sorry,” the kid murmurs, head tucked down. Tankor just waves a hand as he glances around the brig.

“Where’s Krok?”

“Gone to look for _you.”_ The lie comes easily, which is something, at least. “I’ll tell him to call off the search. Poor guy wasn’t feeling well as it is, and you kept us waiting for –”

“Oh, come on, it was barely ten minutes.” The big guy darts a look I can’t read at the kid, who’s still got his face tilted down to the floor.

“You can’t just not turn up!” I step up to Tankor, toe to toe; I’m close to shaking as every ounce of tension leaves my body as rage. “How in the Pit were we supposed to know you’d show eventually? What happened to _the squad is the squad_?”

“Oh, frag you, you’re the one who couldn’t even cover for us for a few -”

“No, frag _you_. I’m going.” As good as it would feel right now to stay and keep sniping at my squadmates until the floor evens out under my feet and I feel solid again, I need to get out of here. And I need to do it before they clock the dents of fingerprints in my plating.

As I brush past the kid, he catches my forearm. “We really are sorry, Trickshot. _I’m_ sorry.”

I glance at his hand against my plating, then at his face. Then, carefully, I pull his hand away from my arm, but hold onto it for a moment as I blow out a long ventilation. “’S’okay, kiddo. Just don’t hang the rest of us out to dry again, all right? And don’t listen to that afthole.” Tankor flips me off lazily, as if he’s waving goodbye.

Without really noticing I’m doing it, I file away that look on the kid’s face for later. So sad, so desperate to please. All of that guilt, without my even trying to induce it. What couldn’t I do with him if I _did_ try?

The voice in the back of my processor, already whispering suggestions: _that_ is Agent 119. I hate him sometimes.

I step into the corridor, and as soon as I’m out of sight, I start to run.

 

***

 

_**\- Transmission -** _

_::Control, this is Agent 119.::_

I’m slumped against the door of my quarters, pressing my back against it until the strained wires and dented plating start to ache. I could be patching myself up right now while I wait for a reply. Instead, I’m just sending ping after ping into silence.

_::Control, this is 119, acknowledge.::_

Maybe I should –

_**::Agent 119, this is Control.::** _

Oh thank frag. _::Control, listen. The weapon; it’s a mech.::_ I explain what I saw, Black Shadow’s strength, his lapses of control. _::You said the ’Cons already reached open warfare with the population on Tergloran. I think – I think they’re going to try and use him to finish the conquest.::_

Silence once again.

_::I know how that must sound.::_

_**::No, it’s plausible. Any one of the Warrior Elite alone can clear a battlefield, and if Black Shadow’s been upgraded further… That explains something else we’ve picked up. A number of Decepticon ships seem to be converging on your destination.::** _

_::To watch Black Shadow’s trial run.::_

_**::It would seem so. One of the ships is rumoured to contain Soundwave.::** _

I shiver, in spite of myself. _::Control, I –::_

_**::Trickshot.::**_ That name in your mouth (even when it isn’t exactly your mouth) sends me straight back to the operating table, you with your fingertips in my spark and a torn-off fragment of my body in your hand. _**::Trickshot, I need hardly remind you how dangerous being in Soundwave’s proximity is. Even when he isn’t actively reading someone’s thoughts, he seems to be capable of passive reception at a considerable range, and we still don’t know the exact limits of his abilities.::**_

_::Control, I’ll be fine. You know me, I’m one hell of a quick study. I’m already eating, sleeping, and breathing Decepticon.::_

My fingers find the point where I drove the lockpick into my thigh. While I wait for your reply, I worry at the edges, letting the sharp bite of pain distract me from the question of whether I’m lying.

It’s a long time before you respond. _**::Very well. You understand, of course, that this means transmissions are out of the question until one or both of you have left the planet’s vicinity.::**_

_::Of course.::_ I squeeze my optics shut and lean my head back.

_**::There’s something else.** _ _**There’s a New Institute test facility at Tergloran.::** _

My optics snap on. _::You didn’t tell me that.::_

_**::Need-to-know basis. We started to evacuate some personnel when the Decepticon infiltration reached phase five, but the nature of the experiments there is… complex. They can’t be moved easily. We assumed we would have more time before the ’Con army reached us.::** _

_::And now you’re out of time.::_

_**::As you say.::** _

_::Do you think the ’Cons – do you think…_ we _know?::_

_**::Doubtful, or they’d have been on our doorstep by now. But we need to keep the evacuation – or the destruction of the facility, if it comes to that – under the radar. We can’t let them realise that we’ve started to move.::** _

_::Isn’t it more important to make sure…_ we _don’t get…_ our _hands on it?::_ I’ve seen a fraction of what New Institute tech can do in the field. ’Con science is already scary enough, if they can turn a mech into whatever Black Shadow is now. Combine that with some of the things we – the _Autobots_ have been working on...

_**::No.::**_ The thoughts don’t have sound or tone, but I can almost _feel_ the sternness of the thought, nonetheless. _**::As devastating as that would be, it’s more important that the Decepticons don’t realise we knew this attack was coming. Because it’s a straight line from that to realising that there’s a spy in their ranks – and which ship that spy must be on right now.::**_

_::So you can’t act on anything I give you, because it might mean I get found out.::_ Every inch of my frame aches, and I want to sob.

_**::We will act on it. It will be a delicate operation, but it will happen. But I need you to understand – we will not always be able to act. There will be times when you warn me something is coming and I will need to allow it to happen, because the alternative is to tip our hand. There will be times when I may even choose your continued mission over someone’s life.::** _

_::What’s the point of this, then? Of me?::_

_**::What you are doing matters to the entire course of the war, 119. But I need you to trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?::** _

_::Low blow, Control.::_ I cover my face with one hand. _::Of course I trust you.::_

A set of coordinates slots into the back of my processor. _**::**_ _ **The site of the facility. If the opportunity arises, steer**_ _ **them away from it – but do not risk blowing your cover to do it. Be safe, Trickshot.::**_

And you’re gone.


	5. And A Rock Feels No Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Black Shadow vs. the alien world of Tergloran - but for Trickshot, it turns out that his mission is just beginning. What are the Decepticons really after, on this planet on the brink of destruction?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some descriptions of violence, but nothing very graphic at this point.
> 
> Starting around the end of the next chapter, though, Masquerade is going to start exploring some darker themes. There will be more details in the notes for each chapter. If you have any concerns, you're welcome to message me, and I can help you figure out what to avoid.
> 
> Thank you once again to everyone who's come with me this far!

“ _Primus below.”_

I hear it somewhere in the ranks – more a breath than a sound – and I think, no, not down there. If Tergloran ever had its own protector deity, they must be long gone.

Because below us, the entire world is burning.

Every member of the crew, ours and Turmoil’s, who doesn’t currently have other duties is crowded into the mess hall, where two massive screens have been set up. One is showing real-time footage from our orbit around the planet. It shouldn’t be possible to see battle damage from this far out, but Tergloran has been gutted. The planet carries scars thousands of miles across, and unending oil fires send up plumes that are visible even from space. For weeks now, the Terglorans have been fighting extinction at the hands of people so much more advanced, it’s a wonder they’ve lasted as long as they have.

But that’s all over now.

The second screen displays footage that’s being broadcast to every ship in the fleet. Black Shadow is alone, swarmed by the last remnants of the combined Tergloran armed forces. I count a dozen different tattered flags before I stop bothering. Decepticon tactics being what they are, the invaders probably controlled most of Tergloran’s governments before they ever broke cover, and yet those that remain have managed to pull together in their darkest hour.

The great mass of the army roils, bucks, and then Black Shadow’s fist bursts from it. Tanks and primitive gun-trucks go flying in all directions; he opens his hand, and another cluster of the vehicles tumbles from it, crushed into a twisted lump. The way Black Shadow _writhes_ is almost too fluid to follow, but a kick lashes out, and then another, a whirling vortex picking up the alien vehicles and flinging them into one another. Little explosions start to dot the battlefield.

And then Black Shadow manages to work free enough to swing his guns around, and….

I glance over at the squad, which mercifully takes my gaze off the screen.

“So _that’s_ what we were guarding all those nights,” Tankor breathes, impressed. “Good job, too, huh? Imagine him getting loose on a ship instead of on a planet.” He’s got one hand clapped on the kid’s shoulder, and the kid, in turn, is still and rapt. Even Ten Feet, while he’s always hard to read, has strayed closer than his nickname implies in a bid to get the best view.

“Something kind of satisfying about watching it, isn’t there?” Sunshine murmurs close to my audial. “Cleansing, I mean. Not pleasant, sure. But I wouldn’t like to think of all those organic _things_ surviving to hide out in the cracks in the metal once the planet’s cyberformed.”

Krok is the only one who looks the way I feel. I glance over, and he’s gone paler than usual, the metal of his face taking on a sickly grey tinge. It’s a little bit reassuring. Or it would be, if he were still speaking to me.

 

***

 

I went to see Krok the morning after my run-in with the contents of the box, to bring him a cube of med-grade and make sure he was recovering okay. He’d stopped purging his tanks, but he still looked like death warmed over.

His optics still crinkled at the corners when he saw me.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting up and reaching for the cube – he must have been hungry, because he ignored the straw and just retracted his mask to take a gulp. “You didn’t get in trouble because I wasn’t there at the end of shift, did you?”

“Nah.” I tore my optics away. I’d never seen Krok’s mouth before, and maybe it was the dim light of his quarters (a concession to how queasy he’d felt when he got in, I figured), but without the mask, he looked… softer. Young. There was a faint scar in the centre of his bottom lip, as if something sharp had hit him full in the mouth, and I didn’t like the uncomfortable twist of protective anger that thought sparked. Looking for a distraction, I ended up spilling my annoyance at how the big guy and the kid had rocked up late.

That surprisingly expressive mouth set in a thin line. “ _Did_ they.” He took another sip and mulled over it a bit. “Do you think I should have a word? I mean, pretty sure the commander won’t bother.”

“Can’t hurt, I guess?”

“All right. Listen -” He beckoned me closer, and I leaned in. “I still owe you one for covering for me.”

I was very deliberately not looking at his mouth. “Nah, you don’t.”

There was a flash of something wounded in Krok’s optics. “Are you sure?” he asked in a small voice.

“Yeah, of course. You don’t owe me anything. Forget about it.”

And then, abruptly, Krok leaned away from me. “Fine.” He set the half-empty cube on the table with a thump. “If that’s how you want it.”

My optics cycled. “Hey, something wrong?”

He gave me this look, weary and suddenly much, much older, and then lifted a brow ridge and glanced pointedly at where I was sitting at the end of his berth.

I jumped up like I’d been scalded. “Fine, okay, whatever. I guess I’ll see you when you’re feeling -” _less pissed off at me_ _for something_ _I don’t understand -_ “better.”

“Sure.” And he turned away, dismissing me from his world.

 

***

 

He emerged that evening, and it’s not _exactly_ like he’s been giving me the silent treatment. Not even like he’s been impolite. But the frost is palpable. I don’t think we’ve exchanged a word that wasn’t, “Excuse me,” or, “Pass the straws.”

And now we’re watching a whole planet burn in silence.

A crash from the screen makes Turmoil’s crew whoop. I turn back in time to see flames billow up, mercifully obscuring everything else.

Turmoil himself chooses that moment to stroll up behind my unit where we’re clustered off to the side. Our commander is next to him, and the two are deep in conversation, looking… well, if not friendly, then at least more cordial than I’ve seen. “… says he’s pleased with the result,” Turmoil is saying as he approaches.

“He’s about to get a lot more pleased,” the commander responds.

Turmoil laughs, like an engine snarling. “Pretty smug for someone whose only part in all this was not fragging up guard duty.”

“And your only role so far has been ferrying around what we were guarding -” and oh, yeah, there it is. Should have known the peace was too good to last. The commander smirks up at Turmoil, who looms over him, the growl in his engines now soft and dangerous. Before Turmoil can speak, though, the commander hands him a datapad and keys in something. “Besides, you didn’t think we were sent all this way for _guard duty,_ did you?”

Turmoil silently reviews whatever is on the pad. Finally, he grunts, “Huh. What d’you need?”

“From you? Just the shuttle. And seven hazmat fields.” Without waiting for a reply, the commander turns to us. “All of you, get your weapons and be in the shuttle bay in twenty.” I jump slightly as he pulls a memory stick out of the pad and tightens his fist around it, cracking it and destroying whatever orders were on it. His feral grin catches the fiery light from the screens. “We get to go hunting Autobots.”

 

***

 

We leave Turmoil’s crew watching Black Shadow rampage his way through Tergloran’s combined militaries. Outside the mess hall, the ship is practically deserted. Our engines sound weirdly loud in the empty corridors as we scatter and regroup in the shuttle bay.

“ _Special mission,_ ” Ten Feet breathes. “You saw. Even Turmoil didn’t know about it.”

“Who do you think those orders on the stick were from?” That’s Krok, in the middle of fitting his hazmat field generator with brisk, precise motions. His tone is crisp, too, all business, and it strikes me suddenly that he’s trying to shake off what we just saw.

My helm hurts, and my plating feels too tight. Why does it bother him so much? Pit, why does it bother _me_? I’ve seen worse – from ground zero, at that. But that was battle, and this is…

I don’t know what this is.

I want to reach for his hand. I want to crawl out of my damned plating. I remember Soundwave, listening in one of that swarm of ships circling the burning planet like vultures, and there are words I don’t let myself think – words about who I am, _what_ I am – but even as Trickshot, a Decepticon among Decepticons, I don’t seem to _fit._

“High up.” Ten Feet does something I’ve never seen from him before: he actually cracks a smile. And taps the side of his nose. “Trust me. We’re being singled out.”

“Singled out is never a good thing,” Tankor tells him, clapping him roughly on the shoulder as he walks past.

“Singled out for what?” the kid pipes up.

“ _Special Operations_ ,” Ten Feet says promptly, and my throttle chokes. Luckily, at exactly the same moment, Krok says, “Clean-up crew,” and the argument that breaks out covers my reaction.

“Special Ops, are you _joking_?”

“Why not? None of Turmoil’s troops got picked for the secret mission.”

“And I’m sure they’re _so_ broken up that they don’t get to fly down to the filthy organic planet that’s also on fire,” Sunshine mutters, looping the strap of the hazmat field generator between his fingers and settling the power core against his palm. There’s a faint hum as it flares to life.

Ten Feet shakes his head. “This is a trial run, to see if we can go on to do bigger things. If you’ve got a unit headed by our commander – you know, the guy on the recruitment posters, the mech Megatron once called _an exemplar of the Decepticons –_ you don’t stick him with milk runs, right?”

“No offense,” says Krok, now checking his gun over with the same pointed motions, “but I’d imagine that if you want him to move on to bigger and better things, you don’t stick him with the likes of us.”

But I’m not so sure. I think of a crushed memory stick in the commander’s hand, and I remember Soundwave.

 

***

 

The shuttle’s more spacious than I’m used to – probably designed to take dozens of troops at a time from ship to surface. The commander slides into the pilot’s seat, but doesn’t touch the controls just yet. Instead, he plugs a second memory stick into the console, and a map flares onto the main screen.

“This is the estimated location of the Autobot base,” he tells us, as a red badge blinks into view. “During previous phases, the infiltration team on Tergloran got close once or twice, but after some weird slag happened to the first couple of patrols to actually try and approach, the rest decided it wasn’t a priority. Command, when they found out, felt a bit differently.” He taps the screen. “We’ll be landing _here,_ outside the perimeter, and going in on foot; it’s all forest down there, so driving’s not an option. Keep an optic out. The base is likely to be deserted – the ‘Bots probably cut and run back when Phase 5 started, as usual. If not, Black Shadow definitely sent them off screaming. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t leave a few toys behind.”

“Toys, sir?” And here I’d thought Sunshine couldn’t look any less enthusiastic about our mission.

“We think the ‘Bots might have been experimenting with something out here. Whatever fried the patrols the infiltration team sent out wasn’t normal. One of the reports says the second team was _inside out_ when they found them.” He watches us, those deep red optics lit with amusement, and the six of us stare back and try not to twitch. “We don’t know whether that was an automated defence or if they ran into guards, so even if the ‘Bots are gone, we don’t know what might still be there. We’ll split into three teams and approach along these paths.” At his touch, the screen brings up three glowing lines pointing towards the Autobrand.

I risk a question. “What should we be looking out for, sir?”

“Anything that could turn you inside out, Trickshot,” the commander replies, and the quirk of his lips looks almost like a genuine smile for an instant. “And, once we get inside – technology, any kind of device or compound left behind. Information, especially. If there’s a scrap left on any of their computers, I want it.” And there it is, the flash of fangs, and it’s not exactly a smile any more. “I’d have gone in earlier, taken the Autobots before they had the chance to trash the place on their way out, but apparently it wasn’t… _politic._ ”

_Of course. Because that show going on down there isn’t just for Decepticon high command. They – we – wanted the Autobots to see. To understand, and carry back the new of how truly fragged they are. Why kill a handful when you can spread panic through a whole army?_

The commander waves a hand to dismiss us and turns back to the controls, easing us out of the docking bay. Sunshine and a couple of the others are animatedly discussing Black Shadow’s moves, which isn’t a conversation I want a part of, so I cross to the other side of the shuttle and drop onto the free end of a bench already occupied by a sleepy-looking Tankor.

A minute later, to my surprise, Krok comes over and sits between us. Before I can figure out what to say to him, though, he turns to Tankor. “A word?”

Tankor gives a noncommittal, “Mmm?” but his optics are wary.

“About you and the kid, the other night.”

“Too right,” I add, leaning across Krok. “For a start, where do you think you get off coming in thirteen minutes -”

Krok cuts me off. “How long have you been fragging him?”

A faint hint of purple rises in Tankor’s cheeks, but I notice he doesn’t exactly look surprised. He at least manages to take the question with more dignity than I do, because my engine sputters and I squawk, _“What?”_

Krok’s glance chills the fuel in my lines. “You know, Trickshot, it wouldn’t kill you to notice what’s happening with other people every once in a while.”

“I don’t see how it’s either of your business, anyway,” Tankor is saying as I curl up on my end of the bench, staring at my hands, fiddling uselessly with the field generator. The big guy _was_ pretty defensive when they turned up that night… and the kid shamefaced… and they came in together, and -

Paint transfers. There was a purple streak on the arm the kid reached out to me. In my panic I hadn’t even clocked it – hadn’t mentioned that detail to Krok. And yet he’d put it together, and I hadn’t.

Some bloody – some bloody _word I can’t even think_ I am.

“I mean, what, am I about to get the I’ll-kill-you-if-you-hurt-him speech?” Tankor laughs. It’s not really a laugh.

Krok just looks at him. “Do I _need_ to give you that speech?”

“It’s just a bit of fun. We can both handle ourselves.” His tone turns thoughtful. “You know, we all call him ‘kid’, but he’s really not. Just because he took the brand later than we did, that doesn’t mean he’s never seen combat.” I unfold enough to glance over; there’s an odd light in Tankor’s optics. “Did you know he was part of an anti-Functionist cell, way back in the early days of the war?”

“Oh! Is that the story behind the...” I make a vague gesture towards my own face.

“Yeah! A protest in Iacon! He says that they -”

“ _Okay,_ ” Krok cuts in. “You don’t need to write me a history paper. I believe you. Just – don’t frag up the squad, Tankor.”

“Feh. No faith in me.” But a smile is tugging at the corner of Tankor’s mouth. I follow his gaze across the shuttle…

… and now I’m wondering whether Krok’s been warning the right squad member about not breaking any sparks in this whole affair.

The three of us lapse into silence, letting the conversation our comrades are having filter through for the first time, and Sunshine’s voice almost makes my spark stop.

“A spy? Really?”

I force myself to slow, make the lift of my optics casual. _Trickshot would be – Trickshot_ is _casually curious. Those nightmares, the one with the familiar voices whispering - “A spy?” “A spy!” - and red optics in every direction, and no escape, those are someone else’s nightmares. And that person isn’t here. Just loyal Trickshot._

“Well, _I_ think you’d make a good spy, if that’s what you want to do,” the kid soothes as I finally manage to look up. None of them so much as glance in my direction. Instead, the kid is clearly trying to smooth things over between a sneering Sunshine and Ten Feet, who’s got his chin jutted out so far he could use it as an offensive weapon.

“Fine,” Sunshine says after a moment. “Let’s see your Autobot, then.”

“What?”

“You’ve got to fit in with the enemy if you’re so keen to join Special Ops, right? Your best Autobot, come on!”

I don’t know what to expect, but it’s definitely not what I get.

One of the first things we learn is how to move. A memory clip plays briefly before I can clamp down on it: _Strong._ _Deliberate._ _Keep your limbs loose; f_ _eel_ _your centre of mass grounding you. If you walk into every room like you’re spoiling for a fight, you’ve nailed it._ Now, it’s like I’m watching that lesson in reverse. Ten Feet’s body kind of… elevates. He sits up primly, and the whole of his plating seems to shift and resettle, deep wiring winking through cheeky gaps here and there. It’s all that bit more open, that bit more inviting. Hands that were draped over his thighs, conveniently near his holsters, come up to clasp and fidget in his lap. When he opens his mouth, the usual louche syllables have tightened up and taken on an Iaconian crispness.

And catch myself thinking, _Frag me. He’s actually good. He could pull it off._

Until I notice what he’s actually _saying._

“Hi there, fellow Autobots! So, I’m _really_ sorry I don’t know everyone’s name yet, but I’ve just transferred in – praise the Prime! - and by the Matrix, I think we’re going to be great friends! Do you think -”

He’s cut off by a peal of laughter.

“Ooooh, yes, we’re going to be the bestie-westest of buddies!” Sunshine trills, clasping his hands under his chin in rapture. “By Adaptus’s ball bearings, don’t you all just _looooove_ organics? Aren’t they so much better than filthy disposables? Let’s all dress up like Senators and have a cuddle party while we watch a Decepticon emergency clinic burn!” His voice drops back down to his normal register from the sticky-sweet falsetto. “You seriously think real Autobots sound like that? Like a bad MTO training vid?”

“No, I – that’s not what –“ Ten Feet seems to be flailing as he looks round, finally noticing that he’s picked up more of an audience along the way. Even the kid looks like he’s trying not to snicker. “Ah, frag you, anyway, Sunshine. Frag you all. What do _you_ know about Autobots?”

Sunshine snorts, but doesn’t answer. After a bit, the kid pipes up, “I mean, they’re probably more like us than not, aren’t they? They’re still just people. And that’s what’s scary, that ordinary people can believe in such awful things. But they’re not _aliens.”_

“No, but…” I’ve never seen Sunshine looking this thoughtful. “It changes a mech. Spending that much time with organics, wanting to be accepted by organics. And that’s before you even factor in all the Senate propaganda they get fed day in, day out. Maybe once, we were all just people with different ideas. I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

“But _we_ do that, too,” I prompt. “Go to organic worlds, blend in. Some of us do.”

“Yeah, and have you ever talked to someone who’s just come off an extended tour on an organic planet? Especially if it’s still around Phase 1 and they spent that time deep undercover. It’s… it’s _eerie._ I mean, it’s more than the stereotypical stuff, banging on about alien music or broadcast entertainment or whatever. More often than not, they’ve spent all that time as slaves to aliens, pretending to just be mindless vehicles to be driven around. Sooner or later, the aliens get in their heads. And those are ‘Cons! We’re predisposed to hate slavery. So how much worse do you think Autobots probably get? How long can you pretend to be a thing, before that’s exactly what you become?” He nudges our sulking would-be spy with a toe. “How long d’you think _you’d_ last as an Autobot, for that matter, before they either found you out or infected you, too?”

“If you knew anything at all about the intelligence business, you’d know what a stupid question that is,” Ten Feet grouses. “It’s not about time, it’s about _discipline._ If you’re smart and strong, you just won’t let them get inside your head.” His smile is mirthless. “First rule of Spec Ops goes like this: Be an island. Let no one in.”

I’m proud of the fact that my body doesn’t stiffen, my EM field doesn’t so much as flicker, while a hot, prickling rage seems to wash over my plating.

 _Yeah. Assimilate completely while staying completely separate; just don’t get attached and don’t let anyone catch on. And while you’re at it, learn to cry purified engex and stop gravity with wishful thinking, if it’s so_ fragging _easy._ I shift in my seat so I don’t have to face the fragger directly, and start checking the connections on my blaster, refusing to let my hands shake. _First rule of Spec Ops, my aft. You’d be dead within a week._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Rodimus Star to anyone who's into random older folk music enough to work out the reason for the title. :D


	6. Proving Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trickshot and company embark for an alien world, searching for Autobot secrets that Trickshot is desperate not to find. Just how far is he willing to go to sabotage their mission? (Alternate title: Do Not Leave The Kid Unattended On Strange Planets.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mild violence.

“No. Kid, put it _down._ ”

The kid and the tentacled… _thing_ in his arms give us identical hangdog looks. “He’s harmless! The scanner said!”

The thing lets out an oddly menacing _blorp._

Sunshine is completely ensconced behind me at this point, just barely peeking over my shoulder. Still keeping track of the tentacle thing out of the corner of my optic, I turn just enough to fix him with a dirty look. “What kind of Decepticon are you, anyway?”

“The kind with unmelted plating,” he shoots back, unrepentant.

Without discussing it, we’ve basically arrayed ourselves in a defensive semi-circle. Krok is on my left, his hands spread placatingly; Tankor’s on my right, looking like he’s steeling himself to dart in and snatch the kid away from the organic menace. Since Sunshine is making a pretty good bid at hiding behind me for someone who’s technically taller than I am, that leaves me directly in front of the little creature the kid is cuddling, in case it turns out the thing spits acid, or something. Great.

At least the commander isn’t here to witness this. He and Ten Feet took point, and must be well ahead of us by now. Tankor and I were supposed to be approaching from the right, but we heard the kid’s shriek and Tankor just straight-up took off (literally, leaving me to run through the trees in pursuit of a low-flying shuttle). If I’d know it wasn’t a scream of pain, but rather a squeal of delight over his new friend, I’d have left them to it.

The kid hugs the thing tighter, and this time it makes a sound like _bwwaaarb._

“Scanner can only tell you if it’s poison to touch,” I try. “It can’t say if it’s vicious, or –“

“Does he _look_ vicious to you?” the kid asks, hefting the creature into my sightline. Its optics light on mine. It has about a dozen more than I do, so I think it wins.

Yep. Fine. This is fine.

“You know you can’t keep him, right?” Krok asks – gently, so gently. “This entire world is going to be cyberformed. He – and every lifeform here – they’ve all been classed as infestations. Turmoil would shoot you both before he’d let you onto his ship.”

“But that’s exactly why I want to take him with us!” The kid turns to Tankor and _oh,_ I can just see the big guy starting to melt. “He’ll die here.”

Krok pleads, “He won’t be happy with us. He’ll be the last of his kind, all alone in space.”

“He’ll have me!”

“Do you even know what it eats?” I put in.

“ _Obviously_ Cybertronians!” Sunshine snaps, as the thing turns at least half its optics on him, and he ducks back behind me.

It’s at that point that my comm goes, and Krok’s a second later. It’s a set of coordinates. Looks like the commander’s found the base.

My spark sinks. In spite of everything, I guess I hoped there might still be something I could do if I reached the location first. Wipe the computers? Plant a bomb, maybe, and pretend it was left by the Autobots? Something.

_Cycle a ventilation, slowly. Either the place was evacuated and stripped in time, or it wasn’t. You’ll know soon enough._

I look up from my wrist. The kid’s tentacled pal is nowhere in sight, and the kid and Tankor are both wearing smiles that are a little too innocent to be believed.

I make an executive decision not to ask any questions.

 

***

 

We catch up with the others just outside the perimeter fence. The commander is tucking away some kind of complicated-looking tool. No need to ask what that does, if the smoking hole in the fence is any indication.

“Got rid of the alarm linked to the fence itself, but we might trip other sensors inside. Move slowly,” he warns, motioning us through the gap. Ten Feet is through like a shot, and starts prowling through the trees to one side of the main access road instead of risking the road itself, which I have to admit is smart. A few paces on, he stops and motions to a tiny box in the crook of a tree branch, painted to blend in with the bark.

The commander draws a bead on it and blows it to the Pit. There’s a faint electronic whine, dying away almost instantly.

Krok spots the next trap, recently disturbed soil where a mine has been buried, probably in haste. There’s a similar spot not much further on, and just as we’re skirting around that, I glance up and throw out an arm to stop the others.

The commander looks at me inquiringly, and I point to a miniscule sphere hovering in the air, suspended on a wire between two trees. It’s almost transparent, just the glint of light off its surface giving away that it’s there.

He pulls out a scanner, and sucks air in through his dentae when he sees the results. A closed fist, raised so we can see it – _stay still._ Then he brings out the same tool as earlier and carefully adjusts the settings, before pointing it at the sphere.

For one sickening moment, I think he’s accidentally set it off. My fuel tank surges, and I lose my footing as my chest plating yaws open, practically baring my spark. Then the sphere lets out a sizzling noise and suddenly drops to the leaves below.

I watch it smoulder for a second, and then check to make sure my chest seam is properly closed up. Tankor’s optics meet mine, and I place my hands together, then mime them folding outwards. _Inside out?_ He shrugs, looking unsettled.

Just past the area guarded by the sphere, we start to glimpse buildings through the trees. The nearest one is a shed of some kind, but there’s something wrong with the shape of it; the top section appears to be missing, and what remains is twisted past the point of –

“ _Down!”_ the kid shouts, and throws himself forward, tackling the commander to the ground.

I hit the dirt. Something whistles through the air above me, and then there are a series of dull thuds in rapidfire succession. Then silence.

When I cautiously raise my head, the trees around us are studded with wicked-looking metal shafts. One is quivering just inches above where Krok is lying on the ground.

I run over without thinking, and maybe he’s not thinking much, either, because he doesn’t hesitate before grabbing my hand to pull himself up. His plating is cold in my grip. Nearby, the commander has gotten to his feet, and is studying the kid solemnly. Then he reaches out, as if he’s unaccustomed to it, and claps him on the back. “Good job.”

“How did you know that was coming?” Krok asks.

The kid frowns. “I heard it. Didn’t you guys hear it?”

We shake our heads, and it’s about then that I realise I haven’t let go of Krok’s hand, and drop it in a hurry.

We’re extra cautious approaching the buildings, but no further traps materialise. And when we get clear of the trees and suddenly the whole complex comes into view, I barely remember in time to turn my relieved sigh into a groan of disappointment.

It’s clear at first glance that the Autobot facility has been _gutted._ They must have had the same thought I did, because they’ve apparently blown up what they couldn’t take with them. Whole outbuildings are basically just charred foundations. Here and there, skeletal metal struts emerge, clawing at the sky. They have a look of half-formed things out of a dream. I shiver.

The structure of the main building – a warehouse-like place with a few smaller offices or labs lining either side of the huge central room – is more or less intact, but it’s been cleared out, nothing but smashed consoles and chemical-stained lab benches left behind. Ten Feet and I work our way slowly through the main room, while the others fan out to tackle the side rooms. We tiptoe through broken glass, sifting the wreckage carefully with the ends of our rifles. It’s not much use; the retreating scientists were thorough. Every pad, every computer or bit of tech has been ground into its component atoms.

And then, right at the back of the room, I spot it.

It’s just a patch of negative space on the corner of a lab bench. A little black memory stick, lying in plain sight amid the shattered screens and beakers. Intact. I can just see someone setting it down for a second in a flurry of shoving equipment into crates, and crates onto transports, meaning to go back for it but never getting there. The dull gleam of it makes it look oddly sinister, like an energy leech in a shallow rust puddle, waiting to strike.

Ten Feet’s got his back to me. I need to move now.

Quick sweep of my hand knocks it onto the floor. I step in front of it, so what’s about to happen looks like more of an accident. Then I raise my foot, and –

“Trickshot! Don’t move!”

Ten Feet’s voice freezes the fuel in my lines, and I slow, obeying without meaning to.

“Don’t lower your foot – there’s something –“ Glass crunches behind me as he gets closer, angling to scoop up the memory stick.

_It’s okay. Maybe – maybe there’s nothing useful on it. Or what if it’s a deliberate plant, and we were supposed to find it? Maybe this is for the best._

I can’t make myself believe it, and my spark sinks as I realise what I need to do. In one movement, I turn, giving him my widest, most puzzled optics – and set my foot down to pivot on the memory stick. It gives an incriminating crunch underneath my heel.

“What? What is it?”

All the colour drains out of Ten Feet’s faceplates, leaving him a deathly grey. “You – you _fragging idiot!”_ Then he’s shaking me by the shoulders. “The only find in this Primus-damned place, and you –“

“What are you _talking_ about –“

Something grabs me by the back of the head, and I slam face-first into a tableful of shattered glass.

Blearily, I can see Ten Feet out of the corner of my optic, looking almost as stunned as I am. So if it wasn’t him, then what –

“I’m trying to decide,” the commander’s voice rasps in my audial, “whether you’re really so useless as to do that by accident.”

“What? Sir, please,” I whimper, not entirely pretending. “What did I do?”

A dark hand slaps the mangled remains of the memory stick down on the table in front of me, and the grip on my head loosens just enough for me to crane up and take in the sight. Beyond, I can make out the shapes of the rest of the unit slowly filtering into the room, watching.

“Because either you’re the stupidest soldier I’ve ever encountered, or you just torpedoed this mission on purpose.”

My engines stall, and for an instant –

_for an instant_ _I’m in free fall, hurtling out of control,_ _flames licking up from below to meet me._  


“You’re hardly special,” the commander snarls. “They’re a shanix a dozen, Decepticons who think they’re _clever,_ like if they drag their commanding officer down a notch, it’ll put them in a better position to take his place. Decepticons who sacrifice the squad for their own ambition, because they forget who the _real_ enemy is. So which is it, Trickshot? Treacherous, or just stupid?”

“Stupid,” I whisper. “I’m stupid, I didn’t know. I’m sorry!”

And I am, Control. I really am.

The hand on the back of my head strokes, sweetly, before shoving me down once more. I squirm as a shard of glass digs into the soft metal just below my optic. The commander’s other hand is twisting my arm behind my back, while his weight pins me almost casually. My ventilations whine in my throat.

“I gave you a _chance_ with this squad. If you’re lying –”

“I swear –“

“Sir!” It’s the kid’s voice. “I don’t think we even need the memory stick. You won’t believe what I just found!”

The commander steps back, letting me up, and I raise my head to see…

… an Autobot prisoner being led into the room, the kid pressing a blaster into his neck.

“I’m just the guard,” the mech is saying, his voice trembling. “The scientists are long gone, I don’t know anything –“

“Found him hiding in one of the storage lockers,” the kid pronounces smugly.

The commander turns to me, a savage smile on his face.

“Well, Trickshot, it looks like it’s your lucky day. You get a second chance to prove you’re worth something to me.” He pulls an object out of his subspace and tosses it to me; I catch it on instinct, only to nearly fumble it again when I realise it’s a broad, particularly wicked-looking knife. “Make him talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably guess, Masquerade is about to get into some dark territory from the next chapter onward. Please do continue to observe the posted warnings, and ask if you have specific concerns.


End file.
